


sitting at the edge of time

by ironmanned (pipergrace2015)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Inception Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Totems, not gonna lie. i don't really know how to tag things, the Cobbs are briefly mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 00:40:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20055205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipergrace2015/pseuds/ironmanned
Summary: “Arthur. It’s just me.”He cautiously walked into his house, gun in hand and safety off, because you didn’t stay alive in this business without being a little paranoid.But then he heard who’s voice it was, and tension drained out his body like raindrops off an umbrella.If it were anyone else, they would have gotten shot immediately.





	sitting at the edge of time

**Author's Note:**

> SO!! I would like to start off by saying thank you to [Rudimentaryflair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudimentaryflair/pseuds/rudimentaryflair) for beta reading my work, and I'm SORRY I did't have enough time to implement all your suggestions... so yes, all mistakes are my own because I wanted to post before the deadline, but hopefully manage to complete editing and update this sometime soon! also, thank you [Q](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queuebird/pseuds/queuebird) for actually helping my brain kick into motion as I watched you rush to finish your lovely fic [(here)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062522) before your bedtime!! 
> 
> and finally, [evisionarts](https://evisionarts.tumblr.com/), my Big Bang artist!!! thank you for being an artist, and for bringing my words to life with [this](https://evisionarts.tumblr.com/post/186675579231/inception-big-bang-2019-for-ironmanned-art) wonderful art!! (I would embed this in the fic if I knew how to do that but I don't and I'm sorry)
> 
> title from eden by ben khan

Arthur doesn’t need to read people the way Eames can, doesn’t need to pick up their ticks and tells, their mannerisms, the core of what inherently makes them_ them_. He isn’t a forger, nor a con man. Instead, Arthur’s cultivated a different skill set, more geared towards his strengths that got him into college with a full scholarship, and later, one of the military’s more secretive projects: dreamshare. 

What he does learn about people, in and out of the dreamsharing experience, is how to tell if someone pointing a gun at him is going to pull the trigger, if they would sell him out in a heartbeat for a bigger paycheck, if someone is underestimating or just plain estimating him. So far, he has rarely been overestimated, and he takes great measures to keep it that way. 

Nothing more annoying than a cocky baby-faced criminal trying to show him up just to quickly reach the top of the pecking order, acting like the job’s an elimination game when they’re supposed to be working on the same team. He knows he’s the best, and it’s better to surprise co-workers and enemies alike rather than failing to meet expectations—or finding yourself unarmed surrounded by seven angry guys all double your size. 

Better to be alive to prove people wrong rather than dead because you oversold yourself.

The concept of limbo was like threatening adults with the boogeyman— until the news of the Cobbs falling in and out of limbo and Mal’s subsequent suicide spread like wildfire. Her previously proposed theory of a totem was dusted off and hailed as a brilliant solution, spreading quickly through the dreamshare community. No one wanted to risk it. The mind was just too malleable. Your own perception of reality wasn’t reliable anymore.

Except.

Dreamsharing was created by military funding intended for military purposes. There wasn’t any fear of recreating places from real life, or attempts to relive memories. What they used it for, it was almost impossible to be able to mistake dreaming from reality. 

Like everything, technology advanced, and so did the people with it. The chemicals used to put them under became more stable, sharper, worked faster. Five minutes dreaming became ten, then thirty, then sixty in the dream, but regardless of how long they went under, they never woke up feeling well-rested. With more time spent in dreams came more time for idle minds. They’d finish up their objective runs and fake missions and mess around, waiting to wake up. As soon as the superiors caught wind of the fact that they could root around the dreamer’s mind and find information, the focus shifted from giving soldiers combat experience to learning how to successfully extract from the subconscious. 

The British had more or less been on the same path. Soon, liaisons were sent over to observe how they gathered data within a mind and in turn, they revealed a few of their own findings; recreating people or places and luring the subject into a false sense of security to lower their guard. 

This was the first time Arthur met Eames.

He was chosen by his superiors to be one of the few to let the British test out their forging on his mind—probably because of how clean and practical he could make his dreamscapes. No one ever noticed the little intricacies he peppered his landscapes with; doors that lead to nowhere and paradoxical stairs going everywhere. And he took great care to keep those parts hidden, a piece of his mind not meant to be shown to just anyone. 

Only four of them went under; him, the forger, and an observer from each side of the pond. They told him to dream, and that the forger would try to piece together an identity with only what could be found in his subconscious. They didn’t tell him how difficult he had to make obtaining the information, so he settled on building his pre-college neighbourhood, dated it back to when he was young enough that his past self won’t be playing on the street and give away his house. 

He’s alone when he entered the dream, so he wanders around for a bit, finally deciding to break into the house diagonally behind his to keep an eye on it without giving too much away in case someone found him. He runs into a few of his projections on the way but they pay him no mind, and he settles himself on a bed, staring out the window overlooking the backyard. A clock ticks from somewhere in the room, and the sky slowly changes colour with the setting sun as he waits for Eames. He hasn’t yet decided if he wanted to see Eames succeed or fail.

———————————

Eames not only uses his totem to make sure he isn’t dreaming, but also tries to put on one of his forges (his first is his most familiar, most comfortable) as a sure-fire way to check between dreams and reality. Arthur knows this because Eames whispered it to him after the first time they slept together. Years after the military, but soon after their first job together on the illegal side of dreamsharing.

But before the Cobbs entered dreamsharing and before Mal came up with totems, the forges were all Eames had. At that point, it didn’t really matter, because the fear of mistaking dreams for reality wasn’t prominent, but there were moments where everything feels airy and surreal. Eames had his forges. And Arthur, well. He did what he’s good at. 

He managed.

Learning to tell if someone pointing a gun at you is going to pull the trigger is usually picked up within the military and carried over to the illegal side of life; a useful observation when clients don’t feel like paying anymore or when a coworker doesn’t feel like they’re getting paid enough. As a con man, Eames probably faced down the barrels of many guns trying to lie and cheat and steal his way out of town, putting him on equal footing with the amount of guns Arthur’s had pointed at him just because he’s usually the guy dealing with the unpleasant fine print, and everyone assumes waving a gun at him will get them more money. His suits don’t exactly suggest otherwise.

The first time Arthur pointed a gun at Eames was during their first meeting, and Eames didn’t even flinch, visible enough to Arthur even though he wasn’t wearing his own skin. 

He was wearing Arthur’s first girlfriend. 

They both knew Arthur wasn’t going to shoot. Arthur was too intrigued, comparing his memory of her to Eames’ forgery without influencing the dream to reveal any mistakes, if he found any. It was damn near perfect, considering she didn’t live in the dreamed neighbourhood, so Arthur knew Eames had pieced her together from photographs and the few newspaper clippings he collected with pride; she was a star athlete meant for so much more than their small town. Later on, it wasn’t the forge he’d remember from that moment, but Eames’ body language when faced with the gun. Arthur would realize it was all Eames, even if he wasn’t in his own skin.

The third time Arthur pointed a gun at Eames was the first time in the waking world, and his reaction wasn’t noticeably different compared to the dream world to anybody that witnessed both times, but Arthur wasn’t anybody. Body loose except for a slight stiffness in the shoulders, gaze steady but blinking a touch faster than usual. Tongue peeking out to wet his lips before calling out Arthur’s name. 

“Arthur. It’s just me.” 

He finished a job with Eames a few weeks ago, and took a detour on his way home to do some quick research for another team that offered to pay but didn’t need him to go under, and when he finally got home he absently noticed the fourth brick from the third row up was poking out slightly. He froze, mind whirling with the worst and best case scenarios. He only noticed the disturbed brick because the potted plants in front of it have been slightly moved. Which meant someone figured out where he hid his spare key. He cautiously walked into his house, gun in hand and safety off, because you didn’t stay alive in this business without being a little paranoid.

But then he heard who’s voice it was, and tension drained out his body like raindrops off an umbrella.

If it were anyone else, they would have gotten shot immediately. 

That night is the first they spend together, after eating takeout with initially stilted conversation that eventually flows more freely with time and half a bottle of wine, Eames tells Arthur of how his forging helps distinguish dreams from reality whenever he’s worried he might be mistaking one for another. 

The next morning Eames wakes him up with a blowjob. They bump into each other as they cook breakfast and heatedly gaze at each other as they sip their coffee and get into a ridiculous little cutlery battle as Eames tries to steal his sausage slices so Arthur goes for his blueberries in retaliation.

It’s nice. It’s more than nice. And then Eames announced he has a job in South America he really can’t put off any longer and so Arthur kisses him goodbye at the door. 

He knew, based on missing items from his fridge, that Eames was in his house for almost a week before Arthur arrived. For the next few nights he smelled Eames’ faint aftershave on his pillow before he something in him bent crookedly and he decided the weather in Bordeaux must be real lovely at this time. There’s a red casino-esque die he steps on as he made his way to the bathroom and it must have fallen out of Eames pocket as it isn’t a regular die at all; always landing on five no matter how he rolls it. He fiddles with it in his pocket during the entire flight, unconsciously memorizing the shape and feel of it.

There isn’t much surprise from himself or Eames when he decides to make it his totem after Mal describes the concept, flashing the die to Eames as he relays the information to him in a bar in London. Later, as he and Eames are settled in bed and drifting off, he asks if Eames will decide to have a totem since he already has his forging to rely on.

“Well,” he starts, voice dripping all slow and sweet. “I may not need it like the rest of you folks, but it won’t hurt to have, yeah?”

Arthur hums an affirmative, finding it harder to keep his eyes open with each blink. “Have any ideas yet?”

“Mm, tomorrow. ‘m sleeping, love,” he mumbles back in response. 

Arthur thinks he nods at that, already drifting off himself.

He’s more surprised at the lack of surprise he feels when Eames digs out a poker chip from his desk the next day. It’s blood red with gold and white accents, supposedly worth five thousand dollars at the particular casino it came from, disregarding the fact that it was Arthur’s first and last attempt at a real-world forge after he participated in a poker game Eames held on base many years ago. He’d realized half the chips in the set were fake, and pocketed a one thousand dollar chip as a model, wanting to try his hand at making his own. With weird schedules and excessive secrecy, they did everything and anything to pass time. This didn’t come close to his weirder hobbies.

“Our totems match,” Eames murmurs, flipping the chip over his knuckles with a concentration a bit too intense for something he could do in his sleep (_ha_).

“Match how?” He asks, sipping a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, fresh because Eames wanted to use an electric juicer just for the fun of it. He’s tempted to pull out his die from his pocket and roll to let it land on five, even though he knows with certainty that this isn’t a dream.

“I have something that you made, and you have something I made.” He stills his hand, looking at Arthur. “Also, we both picked the number five.”

“Five is a good number.” He says. “Third prime number, third factorial prime. First safe prime.”

Eames reaches out for the finished glass with a little frown, placing it on the desk. His eyes never leave Arthur. “You know maths was never my strong subject.”

Arthur smiles, a little boyish grin, feeling utterly content with his life in that moment. “Then trust me, Mr. Eames, and take my word for it. Five is out lucky number.” 

——————————

There was a time, during a job gone wrong, where Arthur was drugged to high hell and even with Mal’s brilliant invention of totems, it couldn’t have helped him the way Eames did. 

Eames was always buzzing in the back of his mind, and even though he didn’t know if his ribs were just bruised or broken, if he had all his fingers and teeth, if he was dreaming or awake— he still knew Eames.

He somehow had a gun in his hands, and if this was a dream then all he needed to do was shoot himself to wake up, right? 

Holding the gun to his head, he looked over to Eames, and something in his tense posture, his wide eyes, shocked a bit of clarity into Arthur. He knew Eames. This wasn’t how Eames looked when Arthur holds a gun to his head in dreams. 

Slowly, he moves the gun away from himself and points it towards Eames. He doesn’t know if his hand is shaking or if it’s just his head spinning. 

“I need you to forge,” he demands, but it comes out more of a plea, because if this is a dream, then Eames should be able to forge, unless he is only a projection. Using a forge to tell if you’re awake or dreaming only works if you’re a forger, Arthur reminds himself.

He’s about to move the gun back to himself because there’s really only one way you can find out, when it comes to dreams and reality, isn’t there, when Eames says:

“I can’t, Arthur. It’s just me.”

_It’s just me._

And he drops to his knees; a marionette whose strings had been cut. Eames is there in an instant, pulling him close, taking away his gun, petting his hair and murmuring ‘_hey_’s and ‘_you’re okay_’s and ‘_I got you_’s into his ear.

“Eames.” His voice doesn’t sound quite right.

“Yes, Arthur?”

“I almost shot myself in the head.” His own hands are gripping Eames hips, less of an embrace and more of something to steady him. He’s aware enough to realize just how badly the drugs are fucking with him but it hasn’t worked its way out of his system enough for him to do anything but ride it out. He hates the feeling. 

“I know, I know.” Eames is rocking them slowly to an unknown tune, their chests pressed together enough for Arthur to feel each breath Eames takes. His body subconsciously mimics it, and Arthur didn’t realize how close he was to hyperventilating until he's breathing somewhat normally. 

“I’m sorry I almost—that you had to—“ he starts, but Eames cuts him off.

“No, shut up. Do _not _apologize, darling.”

Arthur snorts at that, his fingers clenching Eames’ hips. The worst of the drugs’ effects on his perception of reality has mostly faded, and he absently notes that all his fingers and teeth seem to be present, and no ribs are broken considering that every breath he takes doesn’t make him want to curl up and die from the pain. 

He feels his hands start to cramp and he realizes just how tight his grip was. Letting go with an exhale, he pulls himself as upright as he can, sitting back on his haunches to look at Eames without going cross-eyed.

“Can I at least apologize for how my fingers were probably cutting off your circulation for a good minute there?” he asks, pleased to hear his voice sound almost normal. 

Eames shakes his head, and Arthur remembers the last time he left bruises on Eames hips, how Eames couldn’t stop admiring them the next day.

“What you _ can _ do, my dearest, is let me take care of you until you’re better so we can hunt down the bastards that did this.” There’s something cold in his voice and eyes as he says this, and Arthur is wholly onboard, already starting to itch with the need to bring down whoever thinks they can double-cross him and get away with it, but first he needs to get better to serve his best revenge, and he doesn’t want Eames wincing every time lets out a heavy breath in pain. He puts a hand on Eames’ jaw, thumb tracing over his brow to his cheekbone, soothing away the stress and tension reflected in they way Eames is drumming his fingers on Arthur’s leg. 

“Okay, then. Let’s go home.” 

Eames smiles, and he helps Arthur off the floor so he’s leaning half his weight on Eames. One hand anchors his own around Eames’ shoulder and the other rests on his back, wary of his bruised ribs. He wraps his own free hand around them, hoping the pressure will alleviate the jolts of pain from walking.

“What about honey?” He asks, to distract them both from his initial unsteadiness.

“I’m sure I picked some up at the store around five days ago, when you disappeared—” Arthur gives him a flat look. 

“Oh! You want to call me honey as a term of endearment? That’s what old women call you when they listen to your sad love story, then tell you your man wasn’t good enough for you anyways,” he pairs this with an overly exaggerated sympathetic expression copied from said elderly ladies, and Arthur huffs a laugh, picturing his or Eames’ neighbours doing exactly that as they complain about the other during their periods away from each other. 

“No, I was thinking honey because of the way your voice sounds in the moments between sex and sleep; it feels like honey to me. I’d rather you leave your weird old lady kinks out of it.”

Eames presses a kiss to his temple. “Of course, _anything _for you, darling,” he says, delivered with his usual dramatic flair. Then, softer, more serious: “They’re all wrong, of course. You are more than good enough for me.”

“Eames,” he sighs the name, feeling a warmth pool in his chest at Eames’ words. They walk in silence for a bit, his totem deep in his left pocket pressing into Eames’ with every other step they take. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr with the same username OR on my [venom/tom hardy](https://thotvenom.tumblr.com) blog


End file.
